The Legend of Zelda: The Great War
by Zarah2
Summary: Kalkin Dragmire, an aimless ranch hand, finds himself in the middle of the greatest conflict the Empire has ever seen. He will have to question where his loyalties lie and learn that the right thing is not always the easiest to do.
1. The Prelude

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Authors Note: Thank you very much for clicking on this story and giving it a chance. This is a novel based on the untold story of the Great War. For once in my life, perhaps I can finish a fan fic, and not get frustrated and quit half way through. Maybe with your encouragement (::cough::** reviews**—positive ones—cough::) I can complete it. 

P.S. After this prelude, you might be all, 'this fic totally screws up the OoT story line. Never fear, all will be explained in future chapters!

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Disclaimers: If I owned Zelda, would I really be writing fan fiction? I think not! 

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THE LEGEND OF ZELDA: The Great War

The Prelude

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The dream would never begin the same. Once it began with impish laughter under the midday sun; the next night it evolved under the pale, crescent moon. The leaves would rustle during slumber, or perhaps lightning would fork and crack overhead. However, even if swallowed in the sweaty crowd, he was, in a sense, alone.

Once, he found himself wandering the marketplace, hearing voices, never words. The people possessed faces, but their features were blurred to him. He recognized no one. The laughter, the shouts, the men wheeling their carts...they just stopped. It was a prolonged pause--their bodies frozen in mid-action. And then, slowly, the bricks from the buildings would drip, fine, golden sand onto the awnings. From the awnings the sand would pour onto the streets.

Each unlike origin, he'd hope that, perhaps, this wasn't the same nightmare that had been haunting him these past moons. He prayed that this dream would be obscure, without meaning. But as the peasants melted to sand, that familiar sense of dread welled up within him and at the back of his consciousness a sardonic voice declared that it all made perfect sense to him.

And soon, to his absolute horror, all would have dissipated into a featureless plain of golden sand. In likeness to a hourglass the fine silt had tricked from everything down to the nothing--the great expanse that now met his widened eyes.

He would have screamed, but voices didn't carry in a world of nothing but sand and sky.

What did carry, though, was the wind that whipped around his body, tossing the sand into frenzy. The growing gale stirred the impossibly heavy air. He clamped his eyes shut against the airborne grit that stung his skin. 

Swelling under the howls of the sandstorm was the voices that he could both loathe with burning hate or fear with chilling terror. It was wicked, maniacal laughter resounding terribly around him. It was triumphant, it was mocking, it was belittling--it was horrible.

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What happened next, he would never understand. His eyes would fall to the floor of sand, swirling between his submerged feet. On the backing of some explained impulse, he fell to his knee, plunging his hand, his left, into the sand. A bright light would expand from his arm and he would find himself writhing in unimaginable pain as his hand burned and blistered beneath the sea of sand. The whistling of wind would cease and the blinding brilliance would envelop the nothingness.

And then it was over. For mere moments, he would find himself in the semi-darkness, examining his blacked hand. Beaming out from the charred skin of the back of his hand there would be a glowing triangle, its power surging through his body. He could ponder it, he couldn't guess, he couldn't wonder, as he felt himself being sucked out of the nightmare and into consciousness.

Kalkin woke with a violent jolt, his limbs thrashing out into the darkness. He refused to yell--lest the ranch hands would here. Struggling to catch his breath, Kalkin lit candle on the stool aside his mattress that served as a bedside table. In the flickering glow, he examined the flesh of his hand. As always, he expected charred, blackened skin, and also, as always, he saw only the normal brown of his flesh.

He let out a sigh, and let his sweaty forehead fall into his opened palms. He had suffered through this dream ever since winter's thaw, three months ago. Then, the dream had been seldom, and Kalkin had convinced it would go away. But lately it had intensified and every night he'd awake just as he had now: the sheets tangled about him and heart hammering in his chest.

As his ragged breath slowed and he was about to reach out and put out the candle, a voice caused him to give another startled jump.

"So he finally wakes".

Kalkin gave yet another start. His head snapped up and his golden eyes flew to the woman sitting passively in the corner. She was tall and dark, her hair reddish—very much like his own. And yet Kalkin recognized her for exactly what she was, something he assured himself he wasn't—a Gerudo. He watched, in disbelief, as she uncrossed her legs and rose from the stool. 

"How did--", he began, astonished". W-who are you", Kalkin finally manage to chock.

Her thick lips twitched into a half smile. She took a step toward him." I believe, that is the question you should be asking yourself". 

Kalkin said nothing, his face clouded in confusion and his brilliant eyes widened in bewilderment.

"Dressed as a Hylain, speaking like a Hylain, a name of a Hylain--Kalkin, you don't seem to know the correct answer to my question, "she shook her head sadly," Shall I correct you then? You, Kalkin Dragmire, are the King of the Gerudos".

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	2. Chapter Two: Jerez Rozwir

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Ten years before the events of the Orcania of Time...

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Chapter One: Jerez Rozwir

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In the Gerudo Palace, Upper Gerudia…

BAM!

The double doors burst open with a considerable crash. Furious and irate, Jerez Rozwir strode into the chambre, seething, her attendants scurrying after her. It was impossible to see her approach without suppressing a shutter. A malevolent air always surrounded Rozwir and people made it their business to avoid her at all costs. Though she usually kept her gaunt face blank of expression, today her furry twisted her face horribly. And as her thin eyes fell upon the young man standing in the corner, there was no doubt in anyone's mind about just what Jerez Rozwir thought of Kalkin Dragmire.

"So, this is him", she snarled. 

The members of the Elite took a fearful step away from Rozwir, a heavy silence hanging in the air. The experienced Gerudo warriors, so brave in battle, exchanged fearful glances, none courageous enough to speak.

Kalkin Dragmire resisted the urge to shrink up against the wall at Rozwir's venomous glare. Her open hostility was obvious and he would have dearly given anything he possessed just to avert Rozwir's penetrating eyes from himself. He wanted her cold, empty eyes off him. Kalkin stared intently at the floor.

"Yes, Jerez, this is the King", a voice called out.

The last word seemed to ring throughout the chamber, and with each echo amounted the fear between the Gerudo. Each pair of eyes swiveled to Rozwir. Her two attendants surpassed a whimper and even Kalkin lifted his golden eyes to watch furry pass in a flicker over Rozwir's face.

A tall woman robed in red--the color of the priestesses--stepped forward. Kiwla Monsoon, the thick-lipped and heavy-lidded leader of the Spirit Temple, faced Rozwir unflinchingly. Now, it was common knowledge among the Gerudo that Rozwir had set aside a part of her heart especially for hating Kiwla. However, Rozwir's hatred of Kiwla was currently being rivaled by that of her loathing of Kalkin.

"Why, isn't it the exalted Kiwla Monsoon? Decided to spare some time from you meditating to join us. How very thoughtful of you", sneered Rozwir. "Now that your here, why don't you explain to me why the boy that you told me was dead twenty years ago has suddenly reappeared, hmm?"

"Kalkin is no mere boy, Jerez. He is the king", Kiwla said calmly.

"He is no king", hissed Rozwir. Her blazing eyes met Kalkin's, who looked away swiftly. A smile curled Rozwir's lip. She swept toward him, readjusting her tall headdress. He lent backwards, eyes livid with fear.

"Welcome back from the dead, Kalkin", she said. "But I suggest--if you wish to remain alive, that is--that you stay out of my way? Clear? Good!" She turned on her heal, snapping her fingers for the attendants to follow. The Gerudo Elite filled out of the chamber after Rozwir, shooting Kalkin curious glances. Kiwla stood behind, her rigid back to Kalkin.

Only when the doors shut behind them could Kalkin let out a sight of relief. He found himself sinking to the floor, running a hand through his wild red hair that fell, unkempt, onto his face. "Well, that went just swell", he sighed sarcastically.

Kiwla frowned, and slid down next to him. "Now do you see why I had to bring you here".

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"I'm who?" Kalkin cried incredulously. "King of the Gerudo? Listen, lady, you definitely have the wrong room. I'm no King. Try the room next door--Ingo acts rather royal. Now, if you e-e-excuse me, I'll be going back to sleep", he told her, stifling a yawn.

The woman raised her thin eyebrows. "Then if you're not the King--who are you".

Kalkin yawned again. "It's about two in the morning, lady--too early for a game of twenty questions. Now, are you going to leave, or what?"

"I'm not going to leave until I get my answer, Kalkin", the woman persisted.

"Fine". He frowned, and said through gritted teeth, "My name is Kalkin Dragmire. I work here at the ranch, tending to the horses since I can remember. I never knew my parents and am quite content to be left alone. I am a Hylian--and am very content to be so, thank-you very much". 

The woman sat down upon the bed, lent toward him until their faces were no more than a foot apart. Her lip curling, she said dangerously, "My name is Kiwla Monsoon. I am leader of the Gerudo Elite and the Spirit Temple. I have come to collect the King and am not content _with the Queen of the Gerudos"._

Kalkin raised an eyebrow. "Now that we've introduced ourselves, will you please leave!"

"Not without you", Kiwla snarled.

He glared into her golden eyes. It dawned somewhat horribly on him that this was the first person he had encountered with the same eye color as he. "I can't be the King of the Gerudo, Kiwla. Why? Because allGerudo are female_! I am not--so there for I am also not Gerudo", he half-shouted, his tone the same as one trying to explain something to a young child._

"You look like a Gerudo", Kiwla said simply.

Kalkin's scowl darkened. Despite himself, he though, she has a point. With his wild red hair and dusky skin, Kalkin was often the butt of many jokes regarding his heritage. Having never knowing his parents, he truly didn't know exactly what he was. He refused to believe that it was possible that he was Gerudo. When Kalkin thought of Gerudos, he thought of a band of scantily clad thieves in silks and bejeweled with stolen bangles and rings.

Kiwla broke the silence. "How about this Kalkin--I will you exactly what you are, OK? You were hidden at birth, to conceal your identity from those who you think you a threat to them. You grew up unaware of your destiny, but now you're going return back to the desert and help me dethrone Jerez Rozwir".

Jaw rigid, Kalkin uttered, "And why would I want to do that".

"Because you know it's then right thing to do".

And somehow, he couldn't argue with that.

So now, there he was, making an enemy of the Queen—a temperamental nut who seemed to loathe him—and staying with Kiwla who, at times, seemed crazier than Rozwir. He heaved another sigh—he seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. Kalkin frowned.

As Kiwla had explained to him, Kalkin really hadn't done anything to incite Rozwir's wraith except being alive. The Gerudo race was made up entirely of women, an exception to that rule born every hundred years. Kalkin Dragmire was that century's exception. And being that exception entitled him the throne—something Rozwir wasn't keen on giving up.

"I don't see the point to this", Kalkin said finally. He watched Kiwla rise to her feet again, and cross her arms over her chest. 

"You are the rightful King, Kalkin".

Kalkin laughed, a low, bitter laugh—a hollow snicker. " You know, Kiwla, I don't think Jerez Rozwir really cares whether I'm the rightful King or not. And do you want to know something else, Kiwla. I don't care if I am or not—but I don't want to be your or any other Gerudo's king, OK?" he cried.

Kiwla's eyebrows shot upwards.

"And do you want to know something, else", Kalkin continued, his voice rising as he rose, himself, off the floor. "I think you nuts! You and Rozwir and this whole country are just plain bonkers! I am a Hylian—not a Gerudo, and I'm _definitely_ not a King!" 

"Are you finished?" Kiwla asked impassively.

"Yes".

"Then Kalkin, if you think I'm crazy why did you follow me?"

"Well, I—", Kalkin began. Try as he might, for the life of him, he couldn't conjure up an answer. _What was we doing out here in the desert with Kiwla—a woman he had only known for one short week?_ Maybe, perhaps, because there was nothing better to do, or that, for the first time in his entire life did he have a purpose? And then, another thought dawned on him—had he only followed Kiwla to rid himself of his nightmare?

" Maybe I'm just crazier than you".

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